


Twenty-Five Things Megatron Hates About the Holidays

by Artemis_Dreamer



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Advent Challenge, Conjunx Endura, Cybertron, Drabble, Excessive Violence, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Merry Christmas, Mild Angst, Not Canon Compliant, Post-War, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-03 04:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 16,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8696533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Dreamer/pseuds/Artemis_Dreamer
Summary: In which Optimus introduces Christmas to Cybertron, and Megatron suffers the consequences.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Ambiguous continuity. Not canon compliant.

Primus had a sense of humor. Megatron wasn't laughing.

It had been an unlikely little miracle that finally ended the Cybertronian civil war. A miracle which simply consisted of the activation of a few short lines of dormant code.

Code that insisted to the leaders of both factions that no, they couldn't continue fighting - not unless their goal was mutually assured destruction. Code that ensured that the continued functioning of Megatron and Optimus Prime had become inextricably linked. 

Conjunx eterna code. 

Having a conjunx didn't necessitate love - it barely necessitated tolerance. But with time, that might well change.

Change, that is, if Optimus frelling Prime didn't continue to insist on adopting human holidays for the Cybertronians to celebrate. Holidays like Christmas.

Megatron wanted to retain what little sanity he had left. Optimus seemed determined to thwart him at every turn. There was nothing else for it but to follow Rung's advice. 

Megatron made a list.


	2. The Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best read after listening to "Holly Jolly Christmas" on loop for three and a half hours.

"Prime." Megatron snapped irately. He'd read the same sentence six times over now, and still couldn't grasp its meaning. There was something to be said for the value of silence.

"Mmm?" Optimus hummed distractedly, attention focused on his own datapad. Typical self-centred Autobot. If it didn't bother him, he simply assumed that nomech else was bothered by it.

"Either you turn off that noise, or I will shoot you." The Prime had been playing this so-called "Christmas music" on loop for nearly three frelling cycles now, and it was driving Megatron to glitch.

"Shoot me?" Optimus echoed dismissively. "That isn't remotely funny." The recent end to millennia of war clearly hadn't done anything to improve the Decepticon tyrant's violent temper.

"I gave you your choices, Prime." Megatron's tone was dangerously calm. It was a matter of personal pride, a matter of claiming what small victories he could. The days of battlefield glory were gone.

"I happen to enjoy this music." Optimus replied blandly. "If you want it turned off, then turn it off yourself." 

The warlord growled, a sound echoed by the low hum of his charging fusion cannon. The Prime didn't so much as flinch as the warlord levelled the weapon. Bravado was bravado, and the tyrant had always been full of it.

"Turn it off yourself," Optimus repeated, his tone blasé. 

This went beyond pride. This was a matter of personal satisfaction. The Prime would give him the satisfaction he desired, or suffer the consequences.

Megatron fired.

Optimus cried out in pained outrage as the blast caught him squarely in the windshield, warping the glass and melting the left wiper. To an extent, the pain was his own fault. He hadn't even anticipated the need to dodge. So much for instinct, or reflexes for that matter.

"Are you glitched?!" Optimus demanded furiously. The fragger had actually shot him! Clearly, his evaluation of Megatron's bravado had been flawed, and that was more worrying than any physical injury. They'd spent millennia at one-another's throats. How had he misread such a simple cue?

"I gave you your choices, Prime." Megatron repeated flatly. He could see the shock and outrage warring on the other mech's faceplates. A smirk spread across his own scarred faceplates. It seemed that the Prime had begun to grow complacent in this age of peacetime. That wouldn't do at all.

"Fine," Optimus snapped, thoroughly exasperated. He reached over and turned off the offending radio. Megatron was in one of those moods, and he'd prefer not to be shot a second time.

He may have sustained injury to both his frame and his pride, but there was at least one tiny scrap of vengeful satisfaction to be salvaged from the situation.

"Ratchet is going to expect an explanation for my injury."


	3. The Cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to ladydragon76.
> 
> What can I say? It's a personal pet peeve.

"SKYWARP!" 

Megatron's roar of rage could likely be heard all the way from Caminus. Optimus Prime, to his credit, managed not to glitch himself.

Apprehensive as all Pit, the Prime hastily made his way from the berthroom to the living area, where his conjunx had been dealing with their latest delivery of mail. Primus was punishing him - he couldn't so much as catch an extra cycle of recharge in peace. 

Most forms of messaging on Cybertron were electronic in nature, but everymech had been fascinated by the idea of Christmas cards. Hence the near-deluge of mail that had been arriving for the Prime and his conjunx each morning for the past decaorn, delivered by a very irate-looking Starscream. And really, who could blame the seeker? He was an F-15, not a cargo plane.

The cards varied wildly in nature, but there were a few prevalent themes. 

There were elegant cards with pompous messages written in decorative typeface, sent by those who worked with Optimus Prime in a political capacity. Optimus had grudgingly displayed them on every available surface, for fear of unexpected visits by the mechs who'd sent them. 

There were makeshift cards made from scrap paper and hastily penned with vulgar threats, sent by Megatron's innumerable enemies. The tyrant pretended to be insulted by them, but hadn't discarded even a single one. The current count was in the upper three-hundreds.

There were generic seasonal greeting cards with only a signature added to personalize the message, from the alarming number of mechs who felt that it was their social obligation to send a card, but not their social obligation to put any actual effort into it.

And, of course, there were those precious few cards from their friends and allies, cards as varied in nature as the mechs who had sent them. Cards from the Autobots that had fought alongside Optimus. Cards from the most loyal of Megatron's Decepticon officers.

And, apparently, from Skywarp. 

The scene before his optics was so utterly ridiculous that Optimus couldn't help but laugh. The desk and floor were lightly dusted with red and green glitter, but Megatron was utterly coated in the stuff. 

The glitter had originated from Skywarp's card. The card that the tyrant had begun methodically shredding into a pile of paper scraps in his dangerously clawed servos.

Megatron turned to glare venomously at Optimus. A terrifying glare that rapidly transformed into an even more terrifying smirk. "Laugh all you want, Prime. You still owe me a full detailing, and it's high time that I took you up on that offer."

"You can't be serious." It was true that Optimus had made the offer. Thirty solar cycles ago, in Megatron's brig, while so overcharged on high-grade that he hadn't even been able to stand. He remembered the incident with distressing clarity. Unfortunately, so did Megatron.

"I'm very serious. There is glitter on my plating, under my armour, in my seams, on my protoform and quite possibly up my aft." That infuriating smirk broadened. "You are going to detail me."

"Get Skywarp to do it." Optimus's exasperated protest was downright childish, but rightly so. Megatron had no business punishing him for the seeker's juvenile prank.

"Skywarp will be spending his immediate future in the medbay, undergoing complete reconstruction." The tyrant replied smoothly. "Would you like to join him?"

Optimus exvented heavily. 

Yes, Primus was definitely punishing him.


	4. The Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of many chapters inspired by the song "Merry Frickin' Christmas."

Primus only knew how Optimus had convinced the council to go along with it. The only thing that really mattered now was that he HAD convinced them. The Constructicons hadn't been pleased about it, but there was now forty meter tall metal replica of an Earth pine tree standing proudly in the Central Square of Iacon.

The entirety of the next orn was to be set aside for everymech to come together and decorate the tree. Everymech seemed genuinely excited about it, too - as if the tyrant had needed any further proof that the majority of his fellow Cybertronians were completely glitched.

Speaking of glitches, the decorations were to be made by servo, and Megatron was thoroughly sick of the Prime nitpicking his creations.

His first attempt had been both simple and logical - ornaments styled after the Decepticon crest, to demonstrate his faction's continued presence on Cybertron. According to Prime, "we're making an effort to leave faction out of this" so "try and come up with something else."

The second attempt had been considerably more elaborate - delicate silver models of famous Decepticon warships, done to exacting scale. According to the Prime, "I repeat, we're leaving our factions out of this." Stubborn afthead.

The third attempt had been rather vengeful - time-delayed incendiary devices with proximity based triggers, carefully disguised as ornaments. Not carefully enough, apparently. Prime hadn't even humoured him with a response, only a deeply disapproving glare.

At that point Megatron had given up. He had simply taken a handful of the glass baubles that his conjunx had been making, heedless of the Prime's protests, and sloppily repainted them purple.

What use was there in expending effort on further futility?

When the unlikely pair at arrived at Central Square in the afternoon of the following vorn, the decorating process was already well underway. The vast metal pine was halfway smothered in ornaments, to the point that some of the lower branches were creaking in a frankly disturbing manner. 

Everymech had made at least something.

Starscream was hanging model jetplanes in the upper branches of the pine, with the help of his trine mates. Prowl was hanging an assortment of delicately cut crystals, doing nothing at all to dissuade typical Praxian stereotypes. Soundwave was hanging the amusing attempts that his cassettes had made at papercraft, and Mixmaster was hanging a vast collection of ceramic kitten figurines.

Megatron's optics were drawn to where Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were busily decorating the tree with dozens of crimson ornaments. Ornaments which suspiciously resembled the Autobot crest.

"So," the tyrant growled, pinning the Prime with a betrayed glare. "We're leaving faction out of this, are we?"

To say that Optimus was at a loss for words was a decided understatement - the Prime stood gaping like a startled turbofox staring down a set of rapidly approaching headlights. 

Typical naive Autobot. His desire - the council's desire - to move away from the faction system meant nothing if the desire was not shared by the Cybertronian people. The factions granted a sense of identity and belonging to many mechs. The council was merely frightened by the number of mechs who still viewed Prime and Megatron as their leaders, not acknowledging the rule of the Magnus.

Both factions required equal representation on Cybertron's first-ever Christmas tree.

There was nothing else for it - he would have to return to the apartment and fetch some more suitable ornaments. The Decepticon crests were a given, as were the model warships. When it came to the incendiary devices...

All bets were off.


	5. The Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to "Santa Baby" thirty-seven times. Or don't. 
> 
> For the sake of your sanity, please don't.

"Unicron in the Pit," Megatron growled. "I haven't seen this much useless scrap in one place since the last council of the Primes."

Christmas presents? Honestly?

More like an excuse for everymech they knew to offload their useless garbage onto their unsuspecting leaders. There was no way some of this slag hadn't been regifted half a dozen times.

"Megatron!" Optimus reprimanded, more for the sake of appearances than anything else. He couldn't really argue. Useless scrap was an accurate description, of the gifts and of the council.

There was no way that some of these so called "presents" hadn't been given as intentional insults.

A discount coupon for Seniors Night at Swerve's bar. From Swerve.

Half a dozen novelty energon mugs. Including one with a catchy but vulgar anti-establishment propaganda slogan regarding the state of the Primacy.

Numerous cubes of that cheaply flavoured high-grade that had been such a novelty half a solar cycle ago. Hadn't the stuff been recalled after a council inquiry found potentially toxic levels of nitrate additives in three of the flavours? Well, there went seventeen assassination attempts.

A gift certificate for cosmetic chassis reduction. "That was clearly meant for you," both mechs had chorused upon seeing the offending article. The ensuing argument had led to blows.

And Rodimus Prime's idea of a joke - a set of cheaply made vibrating frag toys, with a note that insinuated that Rodimus would gladly demonstrate their use.

"At least Soundwave has good taste," Megatron exvented with exasperation.

"Soundwave?" Optimus asked, thoroughly confused. He hadn't seen any presents from Megatron's Third in Command in this massive pile of scrap, and they'd just spent the better part of a cycle carefully going through every last parcel. 

As Red Alert had helpfully pointed out, there was always the risk of proximity-triggered explosives, sleeper viruses, and aerosol-administered time-delayed neurotoxins.

The tyrant snagged a datapad from the desk, the only remaining surface in their quarters that wasn't covered with mutilated wrapping foil. As it turned out, neither mech had much patience for packaging. A chiming tone indicated a successful file transfer, at which point Megatron passed the datapad over to the Prime

"The deed of ownership for the energon mining operation on the third moon of Caminus." He smirked smugly. It was no small gift - those mines were worth a fortune. 

Soundwave had doubtless called in more than a few favours, blackmailed more than a few businessmechs, and likely even killed a mech or two to obtain the deed. All to please his Lord and Master.

"We can't accept this!" Optimus exclaimed, clearly taken aback. "It's a conflict of interest. No member of the governing political body of Cybertron may own or manage private enterprise." 

"I don't see YOUR name on the deed, Prime." Megatron growled with irritation. Typical self-centred Autobot.

"No member of the governing political body of Cybertron, nor any of their sparkmates, bondmates, trine mates or conjunxes." Optimus clarified. "Regulation sixty, sub regulation twenty nine, paragraph three hundred and eighty four."

With what could only be described as a roar, Megatron seized the datapad and crushed it in one massive servo. "I loathe you, Prime." The tyrant spat, livid with rage.

Primus forbid he should enjoy even a single moment of this so-called holiday. With that much wealth, Megatron could have set up permanent residence on any alien planet in the known universe that he so chose, far, far away from the Prime. 

Optimus slag well knew it.

"It's mutual."


	6. The Naughty List

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we're getting a bit too meta.

Megatron had no interest in writing a list. In fact, Megatron was already busy writing a list that the Prime had no knowledge of. However, his conjunx was nothing if not persistent. So, Megatron sat at the desk, with a stylus and datapad, working on another unnecessary list.

The concept had been as simple as it was idiotic. Write a list of the things that he wanted to receive for Christmas. Yet another seasonal tradition of this aggravating human holiday that Optimus blatantly refused to tire of.

The task had been a single list, but Megatron had ended up with three. The tyrant jotted down one last name, then exvented. He'd already spent far too much time on this nonsense. Right on cue, the Prime appeared at his elbow, craning over to peer at what his conjunx had written.

Megatron rolled his optics and handed over the datapad. Typical nosy Autobot, peering over his shoulder with all the subtlety of Starscream's latest coup attempt. 

Frankly, Optimus hadn't expected Megatron to humour him, and after briefly skimming the datapad, he honestly wished that Megatron hadn't humoured him. The list was divided into three neat columns. The first was titled "Deactivation," the second was titled "Surveillance," and the third was titled "Persuasion."

Optimus should have known better than to keep reading, but a morbid curiosity spurred him on. After all, what better way to gain insight into the tyrant's twisted processor? He began with the column titled "Deactivation."

Unsurprisingly, the first name on the list was Starscream, underlined twice for emphasis. More surprisingly, the second name was Skywarp, and there was a note in the margin that read "and poss. TC to complete set." Optimus shuddered. He would never understand Decepticon infighting.

Lower on the list were "Rodimus frelling Prime" and "that idiot Thrust." However, it was the final two names that disturbed him the most. Optimus Prime's own name was written second-to-last in the Deactivation column, annotated with a question mark and the word "mutual" in brackets. 

The last entry simply read "misc. Autobots." Either there were too many mechs to list, or the tyrant didn't consider the mechs in question as being significant enough to be named individually. Neither proposition was particularly comforting. 

He really shouldn't have kept reading, but despite him better judgment, he found his optics wandering to the "Surveillance" column. An annotation alongside the title read "del. to SWave."

Unsurprisingly and disturbingly in equal measure, the first name on the list was Ultra Magnus, closely followed by the names of ten of the current Primes not already listed. Optimus caught himself checking which one of his fellow councillors hadn't made the list, then decided that he didn't want to know.

The next name was Wheeljack, with the words "use caution" underlined in the margin. Optimus smirked - caution was an understatement. Below that was written "Arcee + Cliffjumper" with the words "colluding" and "poss. assassination" written in brackets beneath the names.

The last name was Sweetspark. For a moment, Optimus couldn't place the name. Then, he recalled where he'd heard it before. Sweetspark was a silver femme who held the dubious honour of being Cybertron's first post-war music idol. The words "keep footage" were scrawled in the margin, and Optimus shuddered.

It was likely that the "Persuasion" column also held valuable and sensitive information, but frankly, he'd already had his fill of Megatron's lists.

Placing the datapad back on the desk, Optimus cleared his intake. The tyrant's expression was a predatory grin with far too many dentae. Almost as if the smug fragger had done this intentionally to scare the scrap out of him. 

Optimus wasn't going to admit, to himself or to anymech else, that it had worked. 

A great deal of this information belonged in the hands of the council's security director. Some of it should likely be brought to the attention of the Magnus himself. He'd see to it that the right mechs got their servos on the information, IF his Christmas bonus wasn't as miserable as he was expecting.

Another shudder. Scrap that. Since when did he trade information for financial gain? His conjunx really was rubbing off on him. 

There was only one thing that could really be said. Optimus mustered up his best I'm-very-disappointed-with-you expression and most disapproving tone of voice

"I hope you're aware that this puts you on the naughty list."

Megatron may or may not have pouted.


	7. The Snowball Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decepticons fight dirty.

In the process of bringing a small team of elite mechs from Cybertron back to Earth, Optimus Prime had violated no less than seven laws, three regulations, and five bylaws.

What matter was of such pressing importance that it would prompt the Prime to take such rash actions? 

A snowball fight.

Optimus Prime was so thoroughly obsessed with correctly celebrating the human traditions of Christmas that he was willing to break laws to do so. Laws about interstellar travel, breaking and entering, and violation of parole, among others.

Two cycles ago, the Prime had gotten it into his processor that they needed to have a snowball fight, Autobots versus Decepticons, right frelling now. Hence Megatron and few of his top lieutenants getting their afts dragged back to that miserable mudball called Earth, along with a cadre of overexcited Autobots.

After all, as Optimus had unhelpfully pointed out, Cybertron didn't have snow.

Well, the Prime had wanted a battle, and now he was getting one. The Decepticon force had shored up behind a barricade of snow, and were currently employing skirmish tactics against the Autobots. Said Autobots were displaying their usual lack of discipline, and it was going to cost them dearly. For Primus' sakes, they were nearly five breems into the battle, and hadn't even built a fortification.

Yes, in an antithesis of the innumerable battles fought over the course of that that seemingly endless war, the Decepticons were actually on the cusp of victory. Now, all that was needed was one final push. 

"Seekers on cover fire, grounders take flank. Commander intercepts main force." Megatron barked the order with practiced ease.

This snowball fight was everything he'd been so sorely missing over these last dozen decaorns of peacetime. He was a mech of war, of battle. Without the threat of an enemy to defeat, without the responsibility of mechs to command, and without the rush of adrenaline in his lines, he may as well not have been online.

If he shuttered his optics and concentrated only on the din of battle, he could almost pretend that they were still at war. If only.

There was no time for that now. 

The mechs at his command leapt into action, carrying out his orders to the letter. Starscream and his trine dive-bombed the Autobot encampment, dropping volley after volley of snowballs. Lugnut and Dreadwing also did as they were told, keeping up a steady barrage from both the left and right flanks, splitting their enemy's focus.

Which of course, was Megatron's cue. With a roar, the tyrant charged the centre of the battlefield, unleashing snowballs with brutal accuracy and overwhelming strength.

"Come out and fight, Prime," he roared. "Or are you content to sit idly by as your allies are slaughtered?" Optimus, prideful as ever, accepted his challenge. 

There were no words to describe the exhilarating rush of charge that coursed through Megatron's frame as the Prime rushed towards him. This was how it was meant to be. A clash of titans, equally matched as they vied endlessly for the upper hand. 

Four strides separated their positions, the Prime closing fast. Three, two. The tyrant drew back his arm, prepared to unleash his secret weapon.

"Total domination!" Megatron roared the order that would decide the battle. 

With the echo of the tyrant's roar still ringing across the battlefield, Autobots began to fall. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, picked off by the seekers. Prowl and Jazz, falling to his ground units. Bumblebee, choosing retreat over humiliation.

Megatron unleashed his snowball. There was a sickening crack of glass as the projectile struck the Prime's windshield, and the Autobot commander staggered to his knees.

Rocks were cheating, but victory was sweet.


	8. The Candy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "After Eight" is the best holiday chocolate in existence.

The tyrant bit down on a chocolate covered energon candy.

Frankly, these candies were a frivolous, nonsensical, unnecessary waste of resources. They were also another symptom of the cross-contamination between human and Cybertronian cultures.

It had become a trend, a craze of sorts, to use inorganic compounds to recreate the tastes, textures and appearances of human foodstuffs, allowing them to be consumed by mechs. Such as these energon candies for example. Chocolate was a human indulgence, but some business-minded mech in a lab had decided that it should become a Cybertronian indulgence as well.

Another candy disappeared into the tyrant's maw.

"You do realize that buying these was a frivolous waste of credits, Prime." Megatron's tone was only moderately antagonistic.

Buying them would have never even crossed the tyrant's mind. It wasn't in his nature. No, rather, it wasn't in his nurture. He'd been born into slavery, spending his youth as a labourer in the depths of the mines. He'd fought desperately for his life and his freedom in an energon-soaked arena. He'd endured countless millennia of the ultimately fruitless war that he had instigated.

He snagged himself two more energon candies.

"What on Cybertron possessed you to make such a pointless purchase?" That same antagonistic tone, hoping to get rise out of the Prime but not going so far as to force one.

Optimus knew why he'd bought them. He'd wanted to give Megatron something nice, something to enjoy. A treat, because deep in his spark he honestly believed that Megatron deserved it. That his conjunx deserved to be happy. Of course, he couldn't admit to that.

Call him a soft sparked fool, but he held out some small hope that an actual relationship could form between himself and the tyrant. None of this was fair. Megatron was in every way his antithesis. Megatron loathed him. Megatron had never wanted to be his conjunx.

For Megatron's sake, Optimus wanted things to change.

"It's Christmas," the Prime replied simply. There was so much that he couldn't vocalize, but maybe the subtext would be enough. "Some of us prefer to enjoy our functions."

In lieu of a reply, be it sarcastic or otherwise, Megatron merely bit down on another energon candy.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Optimus reached over to snag a piece of the candy for himself. Clearly, they must taste incredible. The tyrant actually seemed to be enjoying them, and said tyrant never seemed to enjoy anything.

His servo reached out for an energon candy, and was promptly deflected by a vicious slap from Megatron's talons. "Don't even bother, Prime." The tyrant growled. "They're terrible."

Optimus rolled his optics as another energon candy disappeared. "And yet you're still eating them," he retorted. 

Until the day of his deactivation, Megatron would deny the playful chuckle in his voice and the fond smile on his faceplates as he replied. "Do I look like a wasteful mech? Throwing them away would be a waste of your foolishly squandered credits. Primus forbid that one of us should possess a iota of common sense." The smile became a smirk. "Wisdom of the Primes, my aft."

With that, Megatron snagged yet another energon candy from the mostly-empty bowl on the desk, popping it into his fanged maw with a satisfied groan.

Of course. 

With another roll of his optics, Optimus updated their shopping list.

Two lightbulbs, a 3/4" drill bit, six quarts of coolant, a plunger, three replacement houseplants, and another bag of chocolate-covered energon candy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone want some chubby Megsy fanfics? Because I would totally write them.


	9. The Carolling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best lyric ever. I'm not even kidding, look it up.

"The lyric," Sunstreaker corrected, "is supposed ta be 'partridge in a pear tree'."

Sideswipe threw up his servos in exasperation. "And what the frag is a 'partridge'? I told ya, 'cartridge in a bare tree' sounds a million times better."

"And I told ya that you don't get to make up your own lyrics!" Sunstreaker retorted.

As the spat between the racecar twins escalated from bickering to shouting, Megatron exvented heavily and resisted the temptation to slam the door in both of their faceplates. 

It wasn't worth it. Optimus would chew him out for "inciting inter-faction violence AGAIN", and he'd have to spend decaorns recharging with one optic open for fear of being repainted fluorescent pink by the vengeful twins.

Door to door carolling had long since been added to the tyrant's ever-growing list of human Christmas traditions that Cybertronians had no business whatsoever in adopting.

Bots knocking on his door at all hours of the evening, interrupting the quality time he was trying to spend with his datapad, expecting him to listen to their nonsensical songs and provide them with warm mugs of energon. Ridiculous. 

It didn't help that most of these glitches couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. 

Soundwave was the only mech thus far whose carolling hadn't made the tyrant want to gouge out his own audios - though did playing back a recording really count as carolling? 

It hardly mattered. 

Megatron supposed that this tradition was ultimately tolerable, if for no other reason than that it improved morale. Well, at least so long as no-one allowed Starscream to participate ever again. That had been a truly painful experience, and it was still haunting his recharge nearly a decaorn later.

On this desolate ruin of a wartorn planet, morale was sorely needed. Nearly everymech lived in a makeshift blast shelter, or worked in a half-collapsed wreck of an office building, or had to walk halfway across the city every orn for want of the long-destroyed public transportation system. 

Merely clearing away all the rubble was going to take solar cycles, never mind the actual process of reconstruction. That would likely take centuries. 

Primus, his shoulders still ached - he'd spent all orn clearing debris out of Iacon's maintenance tunnels. Now, instead of relaxing on the couch with a datapad, he was listening to a pair of juvenile Autobots argue about Christmas songs. 

"The lyric doesn't matter." The tyrant interjected, in his most thoroughly menacing tone. "Either finish the slagging song and drink your slagging energon, or leave."

As one, the twins winced. Sideswipe actually squeaked out a "yessir," only for Sunstreaker to elbow him in the chassis with an angrily whispered reminder that "we're not supposed ta respect the Decepticons."

Megatron rolled his optics, and reconsidered slamming the door.

Thankfully, the young Autobots had gotten the hint. With a minimum of scuffling, they repositioned themselves side by side and continued with the song. Sideswipe was no longer altering the lyrics, but the tyrant was fairly sure that he was out of key on purpose. Nomech could be that frelling tone deaf. 

There were nine days left to "The Twelve Days of Christmas," and Megatron was sorely tempted to restart the war.


	10. The Family Portrait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galvatron doesn't exist.

"And why exactly should I agree to this foolishness?" Megatron inquired, raising a skeptical optic ridge.

"As I've already told you, we need a family photo for our Christmas card," Optimus explained patiently, for the third time that afternoon.

Everymech that they knew (and many mechs that they didn't) had sent cards to the Prime and his conjunx, and Optimus had gotten it into his processor that they needed to return the favor. 

It seemed to the tyrant that sending out nearly nine hundred Christmas cards would be a colossal waste of time and energon. It also didn't answer the most glaringly obvious question.

"And how the frag does a photo of just the two of us constitute a 'family portrait', exactly?" Megatron asked, tone sarcastic enough to kill a turbofox at thirty paces.

"We make do with what we have," Optimus replied mildly, adjusting the tripod on the camera stand.

Make do? Make frelling do? The tyrant opened his mouth to deliver a blistering tirade of curses regarding the Prime's impertinence, then promptly closed it with an audible snap. 

Was that a Santa hat?

Unicron in the Pit, it actually was. To make matters worse, Optimus clearly expected him to wear it. 

"One condition, Prime," Megatron snapped, taking the human garment gingerly in his claws. "Starscream's trine will under no circumstances be on the mailing list."

"If you insist," came the Prime's surprisingly reasonable reply. The tyrant rolled his optics. It seemed that his conjunx had finally begun to understand the fine art of negotiation - two hundred and thirty-six millennia too late.

Megatron settled the garish red hat gingerly atop his helm. "Now, let's get this over with."

*click*

"You blinked." Prime observed. So? Megatron wondered privately. I'm not the one whose antlers are crooked.

*click*

"That isn't a smile, it's a smirk." And this time, you blinked.

*click*

"Is it really necessary to show that many fangs?" Is it really necessary to tilt your helm like a confused turbopuppy?

*click*

"You-"

"For Primus's sakes!" Megatron cut off yet another of the Prime's petty complaints with an exasperated bark. "Just pick one! The photo is for a Christmas card, not the frelling Cybertronian National Museum of Modern Art."

"I suppose you're right." Another stunningly reasonable response from the typically stubborn Prime.

By all rights, Megatron should have been suspicious. However, the warlord was far too relieved at finally being able to remove that idiotic frelling hat to bother with anything as rational as suspicion.

He was going to regret it. Specifically, he was going to regret it exactly three orns later, when Starscream commed him on a supposedly private frequency. (Megatron made a mental note to change all of his comlink passphrases. Again.)

The seeker was cackling madly, but from what little Megatron could understand between screeches of laughter, his Second thought that he looked "positively idiotic" on the Christmas cards that the Prime had sent out. The phrases "hideous hat," "blurry as Pit," and "taken with a two-megapixel toaster," may also have been involved.

Thoroughly insulted, the tyrant finally bothered to take a look at one of the finished cards. Yes, the hat was definitely hideous, the photo was definitely blurry, and if Megatron hadn't seen the camera with his own two optics, he would have definitely agreed that it had been taken with a toaster.

The seeker hadn't been exaggerating. It was downright pathetic, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was that Optimus Prime had apparently sent out nine hundred Christmas cards featuring a photo -

"PRIME!" The tyrant roared.

\- in which Megatron had frelling blinked.


	11. The Guest List

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spider tentacle babies.

How exactly did one plan the first annual Autobot-Decepticon Christmas party? Very, very carefully.

Megatron and Optimus Prime were currently seated together at the desk in their quarters, poring over a seating chart. 

The celebration was going to be equal parts formal and casual. A reception ceremony, a banquet, a dance floor and an open bar would all be on feature. All of that, and one Pit of an after-party. 

Frankly, planning the banquet was the most difficult aspect of this entire endeavour. They'd reserved the venue, written the speeches, and secured Swerve to preside over the open bar. However, between pinning down the catering and planning the seating arrangements, the banquet was turning out to be a downright nightmare.

How did one seat two hundred and fifty members of two volatile and disparate factions while ensuring that nothing worse than a few verbal spats broke out? 

Megatron jabbed a claw at the name that Optimus had just added to the chart. "We can't separate any of the combiners," he snapped. 

"If we seat all the combiners at their own tables, and all of the trines at their own tables, there isn't exactly going to be much mingling occurring between the factions." Optimus tried not to sound petulant as he erased the offending name.

"Your so-called 'mingling' isn't worth spending four cycles being yelled at by Starscream and Mixmaster." The tyrant shot back. Particularly Starscream. "Really Prime, show some common sense."

"Only if you show some first," Optimus knew that he sounded childish, but they'd been at this for nearly a cycle now, and Megatron was really starting to get under his plating. 

The tyrant scrawled a name onto the chart. Optimus recoiled with horror.

"No." He snapped. "Blackarachnia isn't coming, and that's final. There's no way that she and Arcee can be in the same room for any sustainable length of time."

"Then we simply don't invite Arcee," Megatron scoffed. "Blackarachnia is Soundwave's 'plus one'. My Third deserves to be with his sparkmate more than you deserve to invite that loose-cannon femme."

"Sparkmate?" Optimus shuddered at the image that was conjured in his processor. An image of far too many spindly legs and far too many prehensile tentacles... interacting.

"Yes, Prime," the tyrant sneered. "Your Autobots may be content to stagnate, but the Decepticons have been making an effort to move on with their functions."

"Fine. Arcee is negotiable." Optimus exvented with exasperation. 

Megatron scrawled another name onto the chart, and Prime couldn't help but raise an optic ridge. "In case you've forgotten, Dreadwing is still in prison."

The tyrant rolled his optics. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that you're willing to violate his parole for a snowball war, but not for a major inter-faction gathering?"

Optimus ducked his helm to hide the flush of energon that had risen to his faceplates. The aftermath of that incident had been downright humiliating, both for himself and, as Ultra Magnus frequently reminded him, for the council.

(Megatron's advice had been to "just throw Rodimus under a transport so that the Magnus will have someone else to chew out", and Optimus was still sorely tempted to follow it.)

"No promises." The Prime replied mulishly. Megatron knew full well that meant "yes."

Optimus was of the opinion that the sooner this was over and done with, the better. Party planning seemed to bring out the worst in him. Megatron was of the opinion that seeing the stoic Prime display some actual emotion was a welcome frelling change.

The tyrant smirked and scrawled another name on the chart. Optimus downright yelped with indignation. 

They'd have to agree to disagree.


	12. The Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My neighbors put up their lights in November. 
> 
> I'm going to strangle them.

Before the war, there had been few sights on Cybertron more breathtaking than the city of Iacon at night. Illumination spilling from every window, streetlights flanking every road, statues and monuments lit with blazing spotlights, and the flickering of thousands of storefront signs. 

Iacon had shone so brightly that it had blotted out the stars and rivalled the moon itself.

The war had ravaged Iacon, and despite the concentrated efforts being made towards reconstruction, it would take centuries to restore the city to its former glory. 

Tonight, however, the city glowed nearly as brightly as it had all those millennia ago. In the spirit of the Christmas season, everymech had come together and decorated every inch of the city with millions of lights.

Lights that glowed steadily, and lights that twinkled in mesmerizing patterns. Lights strung in strands of plain colours, sequenced colours, or merely random assortments of every colour imaginable. Lights that shone so brightly that Iacon once again blotted out the stars and rivalled the moon itself.

Lights that were driving Megatron to glitch.

The blinking and flashing and excessive brightness were bad enough, but what really got under his plating was the unity that this massive waste of energon represented. The entirety of Cybertron had come together at last, not for any great and meaningful purpose, but rather for the celebration of a thoroughly pointless human holiday. 

And, as he had just discovered, not even his own living quarters were to be spared from the infestation of lights overrunning the city. Optimus frelling Prime had hung Christmas lights in their apartment. 

Multicoloured strands of lights blinked in random patterns from where they were festooned along the ceiling, hung in the doorways, strung across the windows, and wrapped around the legs of the furniture. 

Of course, right in the middle of it all was Optimus Prime, looking thoroughly pleased with himself as he strung yet another strand of lights along the balcony. Typical smug Autobot.

"So, how does it look?" The Prime asked his conjunx's opinion with a smile that was far too cheerful for his own good. Megatron exvented.

"It's gaudier than Rodimus's spike." The tyrant replied bluntly. 

That was no mean feat. Rodimus Prime was one of those insufferably vain mechs who had undergone cosmetic modifications to his spike. Etching, biolights, a custom paint job - it looked tacky as all Pit.

"You're just not in the spirit of the season." Optimus reprimanded, holding out a string of lights to his bemused conjunx. "It will help if you put these on."

Confusion momentarily flashed through the tyrant's processor. Then, he took a good look at the Prime, and a horrified understanding struck him. Optimus had actually strung several strands of multicoloured lights around his own frame.

"No." The tyrant's tone was dangerous. He was putting his pede down. He was not an ostentatious mech, and had never decorated his frame unnecessarily. He wasn't about to start with frelling Christmas lights. Judging by the Prime's crestfallen expression, Optimus had gotten the point. 

Or perhaps not. 

The Prime advanced on him, brandishing the string of lights in his servos. "Just try them on," came the repeated insistence.

"I refuse." The tyrant stood his ground, all systems on high alert. If the Prime wanted to initiate a confrontation, Megatron was more than happy to oblige. Oblivious to the tension in the other mech's stance, Optimus reached out a servo to grasp Megatron's shoulder. 

Only to have that servo brutally seized and twisted as a large fist connected firmly with his chassis. The impact sent him to his knees, pain flaring through his sensornet. Another blow, this one directly to his faceplates. His optics lost focus. He could taste energon. Then, the third blow connected with the side of his helm, and everything went offline.

Optimus onlined two cycles later in the medbay, with a disapproving Ratchet standing over him, busily untangling the dozens of strands of Christmas lights that had been bound tightly around the Prime's frame.

The old medic exvented heavily. 

"For once, I agree with Megatron."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that? Graphic descriptions of robot dick need content warnings? Oops.


	13. The Blackout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four-and-a-half pet peeves in one drabble.
> 
> Pretty sure that's a world record.

The overhead lights flickered once, twice, a third time. Then, the entire apartment went dark.

A momentary fit panic seized Megatron's spark. The last blackout he'd experienced had been nearly three vorns ago. A blackout heralded by the sound of resonating explosions, as the fuel tanks of the Nemesis were detonated by an Autobot saboteur. 

No. They were no longer at war. 

The panic was quickly replaced by irritation. Frelling glitches and their frelling excessive Christmas lights. If Iacon's main generators had just gone offline, the reconstruction effort would be set back by several decaorns at the very least.

The tyrant strode over to the window, surveying the city below. No, Iacon had not gone dark. It still blazed brightly with millions of irritating decorative lights. It was almost a pity - a full blackout might have taught those fools a sorely needed lesson or two about energon conservation. Pit knew they didn't have enough of it.

If the city was still lit, that only meant one thing. "Prime!" Megatron bellowed. "What was it this time?"

If the idiot had blown yet another fuse testing yet another of Wheeljack's "quality of function" experiments, the tyrant was going to strangle him. 

Optimus emerged warily from his berthroom, headlights on, datapad in hand. 

"Jumping to conclusions is a dangerous habit." The Prime reprimanded. He'd been reading in relative peace when the lights went out.

"It was a logical conclusion," Megatron retorted acridly. "The question remains. Is our unit the only one without power, or is it a farther-reaching problem?"

"How does that make a difference?" Optimus blinked at the tyrant uncomprehendingly. 

Megatron rolled his optics with exasperation. Typical clueless Autobot. "It's the difference between replacing a fuse and dismantling the superintendent. Again."

Optimus was about to make a disapproving comment regarding the state of Red Alert's fragile processor health, and how Megatron was going to permanently glitch the bot one of these days. However, a loudly closing door in the hallway cut him off before he could begin.

"And now some mech is slamming doors again," Megatron growled. He thought he'd put a stop to that several decaorns ago, through the liberal use of shrapnel grenades, two unfriendly holovids and a generous application of explosive gel. Apparently another reminder was in order.

"Calm down," Optimus urged. "Blackouts are a normal part of the holidays. We should try to enjoy it while it lasts."

Enjoy it? It was Megatron's turn to gape uncomprehendingly. Was the Prime out of his processor? 

Optimus answered the unspoken question with an emphatic affirmative only a few nanokliks later, as he began to set out and light an array of festively coloured wax cylinders.

Candles, the tyrant's processor supplied. Scented candles, it amended a moment later. The repulsive odour of artificial pine was overwhelmingly powerful. Megatron belatedly offlined his olfactory receptors, but it was too late - he was going to be smelling that for orns. 

"Congratulations Prime," Megatron sneered. "You've managed to find something more thoroughly offensive to me than Blitzwing's deactivated sparkling jokes." 

Leaving Optimus to gape in shock at such a crude notion, the tyrant turned and stalked out of the apartment, closing the door with deliberate care. There was seemingly no end to the list of nonsensical traditions which the Prime had adopted, and this one was particularly obnoxious. He was not about to endure such foolishness for even a klik longer than was necessary.

The hallways were dark, and full of bewildered mechs conferring about the sudden loss of power. It seemed as though the blackout extended throughout the entirety of the building, signifying a problem considerably more serious than a blown fuse. 

Good. Let the Prime stew in his own miserable stench. 

Megatron was going to thoroughly enjoy making Red Alert suffer. Again.


	14. The Eggnog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Blitzwing gets drunk, does he become Blitzedwing?

"You do realize that if you poison yourself with that slag, we'll both end up deactivated." Megatron snorted derisively. He had no faith whatsoever in the Prime's ability to cook. Particularly when it came to making experimental blends of "energon-based holiday beverages."

Optimus wouldn't be deterred, raising the cube to his mouth.

The tyrant quirked an optic ridge. It seemed that the Prime was developing a reckless streak - this behaviour was thoroughly at odds with his usually reserved approach towards unnecessary risks. Well, either that, or the Prime had grown so sick of the mutual loathing between himself and his unwilling conjunx that he had finally decided to end both of their suffering.

If only. The truth of the matter was that the Prime was merely stupid.

Common sense would dictate that any experiment that even Wheeljack refused to perform, on the grounds that such a disgusting abomination should never be brought into being, should never be performed at all. When it came to Christmas, however, Optimus Prime lacked anything remotely resembling common sense. 

Which is why he had decided to replicate the divisive human beverage known as eggnog. Which is why he was currently drinking said eggnog.

"Mmm," Optimus hummed happily. "Almost as good as the real thing. Do you want to try some?" He proffered the cube to Megatron.

The tyrant took the cube gingerly in his claws, holding it away from himself as though it would explode without warning at any nanoklik. According to his scans, it wouldn't explode. It did, however, possess highly elevated levels of unstable radon. 

A sip wouldn't hurt. Much. An entire cube, however, would be enough to put a mech in the medbay for at least a decaorn with a severe case of radiation poisoning. 

Unicron in the Pit, was this slag ever disgusting. Megatron tried his best not to purge right then and there as the repulsive flavour and texture of the simulated eggnog flooded his sensor net. 

Yes, it was every bit as horrifying as he had expected, and it would suit his needs perfectly. Whether he was willing to admit it or not, the Prime truly was an evil genius.

The tyrant forced himself to swallow. "It has merit," he concluded honestly. "How much have you made?"

Optimus grinned, pleasantly surprised. He had been hoping that his conjunx would enjoy it. "About six cubes worth," he replied. "Should I make more?" 

Megatron shuddered. Oh dear Primus no.

"I'll need a cube of this to give to Blitzwing," the tyrant replied, in lieu of an actual answer. The last thing he wanted to do was encourage the Prime. "He deserves something special."

"Of course. If you enjoyed it, I'm sure he'll enjoy it too." Typical prideful Autobot, completely oblivious to even the most blatant subtext in Megatron's tone.

Yes, Blitzwing deserved something truly special. The last time the triplechanger had gotten into an argument with his other two personalities, he had ended up shooting Megatron. Thirteen slagging times. For humans, thirteen was an unlucky number. It was about to become an unlucky number for Decepticons as well.

The only thing more satisfying than sending Blitzwing to the medbay in a heap of dismantled parts would be sending him to the medbay with severe radiation poisoning. Poisoning from a cube of eggnog that for all intents and purposes had originated from, and had been created by, none other than Optimus Prime himself.

This would inevitably be investigated as an assassination attempt, and Megatron was going to thoroughly enjoy every klik of watching the Prime squirm.

Now the only problem was stopping that idiot from drinking the rest of the batch and deactivating them both.


	15. The Scarf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's the opposite of global warming? Because I think I'm slowly freezing to death.

Megatron gingerly examined the strange object, turning it over in his claws. It appeared to be a long, narrow rectangle of knitted material. A closer examination indicated that it was made from organic fibres, had originally been red in colour, and had been clumsily dyed a particularly vibrant shade of purple. Decepticon purple, in fact.

"It's a scarf." His conjunx explained helpfully, clearly amused by the tyrant's confusion.

"Thank you Prime, for stating the brutally obvious," Megatron snapped, in an effort to save face. "The question is why. What possible use do Cybertronians have for scarves?"

"For warmth," Optimus explained, in a tone that suggested that the answer should have been obvious. It was highly amusing to see the tyrant like this, completely out of his element and using sheer bravado to hide his ignorance. The Prime tried his best not to laugh – it was highly amusing, but not worth getting punched in the faceplates over. 

Megatron exvented with annoyance. Typical condescending Autobot. "I understand the function of a scarf. I merely fail to see the benefits." 

He was genuinely curious as to what nonsensical idea had gotten into the Prime's processor this time. Not that he'd ever admit it, of course. Was this another so-called holiday tradition? 

Cybertron didn't have seasons, or weather, or frigid polar regions. There weren't even considerable differences between the planet's daytime and nighttime temperatures. There was seemingly no reason why anymech living on Cybertron would need a scarf. 

The only explanations were either festive idiocy or tactical brilliance. Had Prime discovered the truth?

Optimus seemed fully prepared for the question. "I'm sure it'll prove very useful for functioning in alien climates," he lied. He couldn’t exactly admit that he’d given the gift for no other reason than to make his conjunx happy. "Many of them are far colder and more hostile than our own."

Apparently, Prime had not discovered the truth.

"Colder and more hostile at the present time, perhaps." Megatron's tone was surprisingly bitter. 

"I'm not certain what you mean," Optimus admitted, caught completely off guard. He'd been expecting sarcasm and insults, not brooding introspection. What did the tyrant know that he didn't?

"Cybertron was destabilized during the war. The planet's orbit has begun to decay, and will continue to do so at an exponential rate. Within a few short millennia, it will exit the habitable zone of our sun." Megatron explained, quoting from a report that he'd read more than a dozen times.

The discovery (and the report) had been made by Shockwave, and at present only a servofull of mechs were privy to the information. Prime was still his mortal enemy, but given that they were technically conjunx eterna, it seemed only fitting that he should know the truth. 

"You can't be serious." Optimus failed to see even an iota of humor in the tyrant's joke.

"Oh, I'm very serious, Prime." Megatron replied, thoroughly unamused. Typical obstinate Autobot. Shockwave's data was irrefutable. "Within fourteen millennia, Cybertron will become too cold to support cybernetic life in any form."

Optimus gaped incredulously. The war had finally ended, Cybertron had finally been reclaimed, and now his conjunx was insisting that all of their struggles had been in vain. Insisting that their planet was doomed.

After so many millennia of conflict, he knew all of the tyrant's tells. He knew when the tyrant was lying, or misrepresenting the facts, or even simply exaggerating. Right now, he wasn't. The only hope for the future of their civilization was that Shockwave, a mech known for his accuracy and perfectionism, had somehow made a serious calculation error. It was depressingly unlikely.

"Prime," Megatron's amused voice cut through the lingering silence as he carefully arranged the garment around his neck cables. "Who created this scarf?"

"Bulkhead," Optimus replied distractedly, still struggling to come to terms with the situation.

The wrecker had a great fondness for creating art through the use of human techniques, and knitting was among his more recent experiments. The scarf had been intended as a gift for Optimus, and Bulkhead would probably deactivate him for giving it to Megatron. 

Honestly, though, purple just wasn't the Prime's colour. 

"It seems that the wrecker has a useful talent," Megatron smirked, admiring the contrast of the vibrant fabric against his silver plating. He couldn’t exactly admit that he was grateful, but it was a very flattering garment. "Has he produced any sweaters?"

Optimus shuttered his optics uncomprehendingly, not at all following the tyrant's train of thought. "Sweaters?" He inquired. If the tyrant was so blatantly dismissive of scarves, what would he want with other human clothing?

Megatron’s smile was humorless. "If we intend for our race to survive on Cybertron, we're going to need them." A whole lot of them.

Comprehension dawned on the Prime – comprehension and apprehension. 

Now, they were faced with two serious problems - convincing Bulkhead to knit more than two thousand mech-sized sweaters, and finding enough wool to knit more than two thousand mech-sized sweaters.

Optimus shuddered. Their planet was doomed, and so were they.


	16. The Mistletoe Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Submissive!Optimus is best Optimus.

Megatron was certain that whichever mech had hung the mistletoe had done it on purpose. Actually certain. He had run the algorithm, and there was only a 0.0017% probability that it could have been done coincidentally. 

The mistletoe hung throughout the offices of the military base was almost exclusively concentrated along routes that Megatron used, and within rooms that Megatron frequented.

That, and the half-dozen sprigs that had spontaneously appeared in his personal office. Soundwave was still reviewing the surveillance footage to determine the culprit, but the smart credits were on Mirage.

If the perpetrator had been attempting to humiliate or shame the tyrant, they had failed miserably. Megatron refused to either change his routines or remove the offending organic matter. He was not about to be cowed by the casual intimacy of something as harmless as a kiss. 

Over the millennia, he'd spent more time engaged in interface than some of these impudent young mechs had spent online.

As a result, he had been kissed by no less than thirty seven mechs over the course of the last decaorn. Thirty eight if he counted the mirror in the washracks. (He didn't.)

Every mech had their own reasons.

Some did it simply because they could, knowing that they'd never get another chance to kiss the Slagmaker himself.

Some did it for bragging rights, to claim that they had performed the taboo act of kissing the Lord of the Decepticons. 

Some did it out of curiosity, wondering how the lipplates of a tyrant would feel against their own.

Others did it for the thrill, to feel the rush of terrified charge through their frames as they were kissed by the single deadliest mech to have ever functioned. 

Others likely did it because they were legitimately attracted to him, though he had no way of knowing which mechs those were.

He didn't particularly care. There was only one mech whom he was actually interested in kissing beneath the mistletoe, if only to see the look of shock and horror on their faceplates. Yes, his first choice of victim would undoubtedly be the Prime.

Today, the opportunity was dropped squarely into his lap. Optimus needed the signatures of twenty-three high-ranking military officers on a document authorizing the council to have more sway in the appointment of future officers.

Megatron was one of those officers, as well as the reason that the legislation had been drafted in the first place. Major General wasn't a position that the Magnus particularly wanted to be occupied by the former tyrannical leader of the Decepticons. Then again, who could blame high command for choosing the most well-suited mech for the job?

As Optimus Prime made to leave Megatron's office, the tyrant followed him as far as the doorway. His optics flicked upwards towards the ever present mistletoe, the only warning that the Prime received before his lipplates were captured in a denting kiss.

For a nanoklik, Optimus resisted - it wasn't right. Right?

The logic didn't add up. They may have been conjunx eterna, but Megatron had never expressed any romantic intent towards him. He rarely expressed anything more intimate than grudging tolerance.

Then, the tyrant bit firmly on his lower lipplate, drawing energon, and Optimus dropped all pretence of resistance. The Prime parted his lipplates, allowing Megatron inside.

For a moment, the tyrant hesitated, thoroughly confused. Where was the clash of glossa and dentae, the struggle for control of the kiss? Why would the Prime not mount even the slightest resistance? Then, Optimus moaned, the vocalization sending shudders of charge through Megatron's frame, and he decided that it didn't matter.

His glossa mercilessly plundered the Autobot's mouth, feeling the self-righteous mech going weak in the knee joints, leaning against him for support. For a few nanokliks, he deepened the kiss, gratified to hear the Prime's cooling fans cycle online. 

Then, he unceremoniously pulled away. Optimus whined, actually whined with need, at the loss of the other mech's mouth against his own.

Megatron smirked. The Prime was needy, vocal, and inclined towards submission. There might actually be some benefits to their status as conjunx.

Still smirking, the tyrant stepped back into his office and forcefully closed the door, right in the stunned Prime's faceplates. 

On the other side, Optimus stood frozen like a turbofox in the headlights. Whatever game Megatron was playing, he was determined to make the tyrant regret it.

Right after he managed to offline his cooling fans.


	17. The Flu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Use ALL the cliches!

Nomech would go so far as to call it an epidemic, but it seemed as though nearly half the population of Cybertron had contracted the bitflu. Call it another human tradition, gone slightly awry. Not only did Cybertron now have a Christmas Season, it also had a corresponding Bitflu Season.

Among the infected was Optimus Prime. The bitflu impacted everymech differently, and it seemed that the Prime had been particularly unlucky. He was disgustingly ill, and disgustingly miserable about it.

Megatron was fit to be towed.

In times past, the tyrant supposed, he might have found this amusing. He might have even been jealous of the virus for doing what he could not, for making the Prime truly suffer. In times past, however, Megatron wouldn't have been stuck taking care of the frelling glitch.

Ratchet had insisted that all Optimus needed was berth rest, and that his case of bitflu wasn't nearly severe enough merit a stay in the medbay. Ratchet sorely needed to have his helm examined.

Without the impending threat of the surly medic's wrath, Optimus flatly refused to remain in the berth. Nothing short of strapping him down was going to keep him there, and Megatron frankly didn't want to give the Prime any ideas. 

Optimus was, in the tyrant's personal opinion, neurotic. 

Never mind that the Prime was so unstable on his pedes as to barely be able to stand, the council security office needed him to come in and authorize some documents - halfway across Iacon, with the public transit system still non-functional. Megatron knew slag well the security office could wait. Those lazy glitches had been sitting on these documents for half a solar cycle, and now they were suddenly in a hurry? Not likely.

Never mind that the Prime was overheated to dangerous extremes, there was a speech to be made at the unveiling of yet another pointless war memorial. The war had only been over for a solar cycle, for Primus's sakes. The ceremony was embarrassingly premature, and Megatron idly contemplated violating the peace treaty just to make the council regret it. 

(The real question, though, was whether Prime had volunteered to give the speech, or whether he had merely drawn the short wire.)

Never mind that the Prime's intake was so congested that he could barely vocalize, the council was meeting this afternoon. Megatron was sorely tempted to knock some sense into his conjunx. Half the frelling council had bitflu, including the Magnus. Even if there was a meeting scheduled, nomech else would actually show up.

Megatron exvented with exasperation, shoving Optimus back down onto the sofa for the third time that morning. 

"You're not going anywhere, Prime," Megatron growled. "Now drink your slagging medical-grade before I pour it down your intake by force."

"The council-" Optimus began, but broke off into a fit of coughing. Incredibly loud, disgustingly wet coughing. Megatron's tanks rolled with nausea.

"The council can go frag itself." The tyrant barked. There was dedication, and then there was stupidity. This most definitely qualified as stupidity. "The medical-grade, Prime. Now!"

"Do you really consider that appropriate bedside manner?" Optimus coughed out the question as he grudgingly accepted the proffered cube. Medical energon tasted terrible, but in his current state, he wasn't about to win an argument with Megatron. 

"I consider it a warning," the tyrant retorted, watching with a smirk as the Prime hastily downed the cube of med-grade. "A warning which it seems you're wise enough to heed."

"It's amazing how much you care," Optimus replied sardonically, stifling a sneeze in his servo.

"I don't." Megatron shuddered violently at the thought. If Prime dared to insinuate it again, that surly old medic would have no choice but to admit him back into the medbay - on a frelling stretcher.

The warlord continued to shudder, involuntarily now, and promptly came to the morbid realization that he was in fact shivering. Almost as if he was - Megatron sneezed violently - coming down with the bitflu. 

Slaggit.

"I really don't."


	18. The Diet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't call Megatron fat.

"Need I remind you what happened to Swindle?" Megatron's tone was dangerous, and Optimus actually found himself regretting his less than tactful choice of words.

Swindle had been the mech who'd thought it would be funny to send the Prime and his conjunx a gift certificate for cosmetic chassis reduction as a Christmas present. Swindle was still undergoing intensive reconstruction surgery, courtesy of Megatron. 

Optimus hadn't meant THAT kind of diet. 

It was a decision made by the council, prompted by Sentinel, voted on by the thirteen Primes, and approved by Ultra Magnus. It was the stupidest decision the council had ever made, but Optimus's opinion didn't matter. What mattered was having been outvoted 12:1. 

"It isn't an issue of energon intake," Optimus clarified hastily. "It's an issue of energon quality, and the proportionate impact on your function. The council has deemed it necessary for you to be placed on rations of industrial-grade energon."

Industrial-grade energon. For once, Megatron was so infuriated as to be at a complete loss for words. 

Industry-grade was what Cybertronians used to power machinery, and was not in any way a suitable fuel source for sentient beings. Subsisting on industry-grade would drastically reduce the efficiency of Megatron's systems, and would weaken him substantially.

Which, of course, was exactly what the glitched fraggers on the council wanted.

"The council still considers me to be a threat." Megatron smirked. "How flattering." In all honesty, it really was a fair boost to the old tyrant's ego.

"Well, in light of recent events," Optimus exvented, "they're not wrong." Just seventeen orns into Cybertron's first annual Christmas season, and Megatron had already managed to send twelve mechs to the medbay, including the Prime. 

Especially the Prime. Megatron had already sent Optimus to the medbay seven times, and the eighth visit was currently glaring at him with furious crimson optics.

"Tell the council that I will comply with their decree." Or maybe not. "And thank the old Magnus for me. His timing is perfect - I was just starting to get bored."

Optimus gaped uncomprehendingly at his conjunx, and Megatron smirked right back. Typical clueless Autobot. 

"Let me spell it out for you, Prime. The council has offered me a new game to play. A game of how frequently, blatantly and creatively I can defy them - a challenge, if you will. I've chosen to accept it."

Optimus couldn't help but wince at the blatant and unabashed defiance in the tyrant's dangerous words. 

Megatron wouldn't deactivate him, but the council just might.


	19. The Office Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for excessive violence.
> 
> With apologies to ladydragon76.

In keeping with the festivities of the season, the Council of Primes was holding their first annual Christmas party. It may also have ended up being their last annual Christmas party. 

Optimus Prime honestly couldn't explain why he'd decided to bring Megatron as his "plus one," besides the fact that he knew it would be amusing to watch his co-councillors squirm. Yes, the tyrant was definitely rubbing off on his conjunx, in the worst possible way.

Amusing was an understatement. Ultra Magnus was fit to be towed, and it was actually possible to hear the relays in his processor blowing as he watched Megatron mingle with the other guests. It certainly expedited the Magnus's breakdown that the tyrant was sipping all the while from a tall cube of high-grade, flaunting his council-mandated diet in the most blatant manner possible.

At some point, Optimus took his optics off of Megatron, distracted by Sentinel Prime's overcharged insistence on debating the morality of slave coding. There had never been a grey area on the issue, and Optimus was determined to set his fellow Prime straight. Overcharged or not, such statements could harm the council's public image.

Losing sight of Megatron had been a mistake. 

Rodimus Prime's obnoxiously loud voice cut through the buzz of conversation in the room. "That's it. I need to put up a sign. 'No-one kiss the dictator, he tastes like slag.' Honestly, some warning next time!"

Before anymech could fully process that statement, Megatron retorted. "I wasn't aware I was in such high demand. Is there a waiting list, or is it only you, Hot Rod?"

"Frag you!" Rodimus spat back viciously, clearly angered by the use of his old designation.

"If you insist." The smirk in Megatron's voice was clearly audible.

What followed was the ringing clang of metal striking metal, followed by a dangerous chuckle from the tyrant. Then, helms throughout the room were turning to follow Rodimus Prime's trajectory, as the garish mech was thrown halfway across the dance floor to land directly atop the buffet table.

Which promptly crashed to the ground in a mess of expensive high-grade and even more expensive energon goodies.

The shocked silence was deafening. Megatron strode over to Optimus's side, still smirking. "I believe that's our cue to leave." Optimus didn't need to be told twice. He seized the tyrant's arm and dragged him out of the room. Quickly. 

A dozen emotions warred for attention in the Prime's processor. Guilt. Regret. Amusement. Could a Prime be fired? He wondered. Optimus was fairly certain he was going to be fired. 

Megatron's smug demeanour wasn't helping the situation.

"I am never bringing you to another office party! Are you glitched? What were you thinking?!" The Prime all but screamed. Megatron didn't reply, electing instead to continue looking smug. 

Optimus couldn't stand it. He punched Megaton squarely in the faceplates, as hard as he could. The tyrant promptly crumpled to the ground in an offline heap.

It may not have been Primely, but it had felt slagging amazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on reader feedback, I have updated the tags to include "excessive violence" and "unhealthy relationship".  
> When I write MegOp, I'm not taking these kind of issues particularly seriously, and I understand that can be upsetting to some.  
> For me, MegOp is basically "The Tom and Jerry Show," if Tom was dating Jerry. I realize that this is not the popular interpretation, and I will endeavor to make this lighthearted approach clearer in subsequent works - it is not my aim to offend my readers.


	20. The Hangover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megatron deserves to win once in a while.
> 
> Does this count as winning?

Megatron's processor hadn't ached this badly since he'd been caught that spacebridge explosion. Every sound was amplified a hundredfold, resonating painfully in his audios. Even the merest pinprick of light was blinding, sheer torture for his optics. He was also fairly certain that his equilibrium sensors were damaged beyond all repair.

In short, Megatron was hungover. "Stop complaining," Optimus had the gall to scold him, tone blatantly unsympathetic. "It won't deactivate you."

It just might. It had been three orns since Megatron had attended the Prime's office party, and his symptoms hadn't improved in the slightest. 

Today, it was already well past noon when Megatron dragged himself out of his berthroom, collapsed onto the sofa with a miserable groan, and jammed a cushion over his faceplates.

"Unicron himself never suffered like this." The warlord groaned.

"It's what you deserve for flouting your energon diet like that. In front to the Magnus no less." Optimus lectured, still not at all inclined to be sympathetic.

Why should he be? The furious reprimand that he had received from Ultra Magnus still rung in his audios. Primes couldn't be fired, but three cycles of unrelenting verbal abuse was apparently an acceptable alternative. 

"Deserve? Hardly." Megatron scoffed. Another theatrical groan. "Have the Autobots begun to condone torture, or does that old medic of yours NOT have a cure for this?"

"How you deal with this is your own problem." Optimus replied flatly. "I repeat, for the nineteenth time, don't complain to me."

Typical selfish Autobot. 

What Megatron couldn't comprehend was how this degree of suffering was even possible. He was the Lord of the Decepticons - he wasn't supposed to get frelling hangovers in the first place! Besides, it had only been four cubes of high-grade. Well, four that he could remember.

"Hair of the turbofox." Megatron decided at last. It wasn't a long term solution, but it would at least stop the worst of the pain.

Optimus shuttered his optics with surprise. Everymech was aware of the tyrant's unique dietary restrictions, and there wasn't a bar in Iacon willing to risk the wrath of the Magnus. Not even Swerve's. 

"Where do you intend to get high-grade, exactly?" Optimus inquired. He wasn't sure that he actually wanted to know.

Megatron gesturing unseeingly in the direction of the pile of cubes stacked on the floor near the garbage disposal. The seventeen cubes of cheaply flavoured high-grade that he and the Prime had received as so-called Christmas presents.

"You can't be serious." Optimus was incredulous. There was a slagging good reason that they were disposing of those cubes - a reason that involved potentially toxic levels of nitrate additives, several mechs being rushed to the medbay, and a council-mandated inquiry. 

He suddenly regretted procrastinating on those long-overdue repairs to the garbage disposal.

"I'm very serious, Prime." Megatron replied dangerously. "I doubt that you have any better ideas."

Optimus tried not to panic. If the tyrant drank enough of that toxic high-grade to get rid of a hangover this severe, he'd undoubtedly poison himself. Such a large amount might even prove to be fatal.

Megatron needed to be taught a lesson, but now was clearly not the time. No lesson was worth the risk of mutual deactivation. 

"Fine," he sighed, thoroughly exasperated. The tyrant had forced his servo. "I'll ask Ratchet for a hangover cure." And you'd better appreciate it.

Faceplates still hidden beneath the cushion, Megatron rolled his optics. Typical gullible Autobot.

Why exactly hadn't he won the war?


	21. The Debt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for credit card fraud!

Perhaps, Optimus mused, there were some legitimate reasons for the rampant infighting among the Decepticons. Perhaps, some of it was even justifiable. He shuddered at the thought.

Megatron hadn't been this agitated in weeks. 

Recently, it had been almost possible to mistake the tyrant for a sane and rational mech, a mech that Optimus might actually want as his conjunx eterna. Call it a Christmas miracle, if you will.

Then, Starscream had happened.

"- rip his frelling wings off and shove them up his exhaust port sideways -" Megatron had been on a tirade for nearly half a cycle now, describing in detail every agonizingly painful and anatomically impossible punishment that he intended to inflict upon the traitorous seeker.

"Calm down." Optimus interjected firmly. This time, unlike the last seventeen times, Megatron actually seemed to listen.

"Calm?" The tyrant all but roared. "That little fragger spent a fortune! My fortune! He's made me poor as a glitchmouse, and you expect me to be calm about it?"

Or not.

As much as Optimus was loathe to admit it, Megatron had every right to be angry. Starscream had gotten his servos on the tyrant's credit card, and, as was his nature, had proceeded to exploit it mercilessly.

"This is all your fault, Prime." Megatron spat bitterly. Tone aside, he did actually seem to be calming down.

"My fault?" Optimus was utterly dumbfounded.

"It was your "Christmas" nonsense that put this ridiculous idea into his glitched processor!" The tyrant snapped, as if it should be obvious.

"I honestly doubt that. What's to say that he wouldn't have done his of his own accord?" Optimus knew slag well that the seeker didn't need any prompting to stab Megatron in the back.

"Starscream is treacherous, but he's not creative. Always using the same predictable schemes." The tyrant scoffed. "No, this wasn't his idea."

Optimus opened his mouth to interject, but Megatron wasn't about to let the Prime get a word in edgewise.

"You want proof, Prime? Your proof is in what he bought. A metric slagton of nonsensical, overpriced, self-indulgent garbage. After all, isn't that the entire point of this pathetic human holiday?"

The bills were downright horrifying - the seeker had made literally hundreds of purchases. Among the most notable of those purchases were several cases of pre-war vintage high-grade, ten vorns' lease on a luxury apartment, and enough obscure scientific equipment to rival Wheeljack, Perceptor, and Shockwave's laboratories combined. 

All told, he'd spent more than twenty million credits. It couldn't have been easy, but Starscream had managed to quite nearly bankrupt the former ruler of the Decepticons.

"Christmas has nothing to do with spending credits. It's a traditional celebration of family and friendship." Optimus insisted stubbornly. 

Typical naive Autobot. Megatron exvented with frustration. "Clearly you haven't been paying attention. Sentiment aside, most humans use the holiday as nothing more than an excuse to indulge in crass commercialism."

The Prime resisted the urge to beat his helm against the wall. Megatron was technically right. However, when Optimus had introduced Christmas to the population of Cybertron, he'd done his best to omit that unsavoury detail. 

It stood to reason that some mechs had done their own research. Particularly mechs like Starscream. 

"- shatter his cockpit and cram the broken glass down his intake-"

And Megatron was ranting again. So much for calm.

Violence was Megatron's answer to everything. By the time a single rational thought entered the tyrant's processor, the confrontation would already be over, and the unfortunate seeker would already be in the medbay.

"It's true that Starscream has committed a crime," Optimus acknowledged reluctantly. "It's within your rights to take him before the courts and demand that he answer for it."

Unfortunately, Optimus knew full well there wasn't a court on Cybertron that would rule in Megatron's favor. The Autobots would want to further his punishment, and the Decepticons would find his predicament far too amusing to intervene.

"The courts won't give me any satisfaction." Megatron sneered. He knew it too. "I intend to tear that little glitch strut from strut. He Pit well deserves it."

"Satisfaction doesn't enter the equation. This is rule of law." Optimus insisted firmly. "This will be resolved with due process, not with violence."

Typical naive, self-righteous, irritating Autobot.

Megatron grit his dentae as the Prime began to quote from the relevant portions of Cybertronian legal code. If Optimus seriously thought that section nine, subsection sixteen, paragraph twenty-two was a suitable alternative to violence, he had a few screws loose.

The same went for section eleven, subsection thirty-five, paragraph four, and section eighteen, subsection forty-two, paragraph seven, and...

And the Prime clearly had no intention of muting it any time within the next millennia. Megatron's left optic twitched. 

It seemed that Starscream would have to wait his turn to suffer.


	22. The Sleigh Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-consensual pet play.
> 
> ... Or draft animal play. Whatever.

Prolonged exposure to Optimus Prime's Autobot ideology must have caused permanent damage to his processor. Megatron could find no other explanation for his irrational behaviour. 

Optimus had been lamenting the difficulty of celebrating Christmas traditions within the confines of the Cybertronian climate for several decaorns now. Megatron had grown thoroughly sick of listening to the Prime complain.

The solution was as simple as it was brilliant. It was time to take another unauthorized trip to that miserable backwater mudball of which the Prime was so irrationally fond - another trip to Earth. A couple of cycles spent freezing his aft off in a snowbank would be worth it, if only to get a few orns of peace and quiet.

Then, the irrationality had set in. Nagging thoughts at the back of his processor that insisted that some of those Christmas traditions really weren't so bad, and that he should actually try to make his conjunx happy for once in his function. Megatron loathed being nagged.

The only suitable course of action was to take Optimus Prime for a sleigh ride.

Now, the two mechs sat side by side in companionable silence, watching as the picturesque frozen woodlands passed them by. Their sleigh was gliding along a winding path through endless rows of pine trees, all heavily laden with ice and snow. The night air was frigid but calm, and the moon hung round and full in the starlit sky. The snow crackled crisply beneath the runners of the sleigh, and dozens of brass bells jingled in pleasing rhythm. 

Optimus sipped carefully from the mug of warm energon in his servos, clearly in awe of the so-called beauty of nature. Megatron smirked. Never mind a few orns of peace and quiet, this might be enough to keep the Prime muted until the New Year. 

"It's almost perfect," Optimus smiled gratefully at his conjunx. When the tyrant had shoved him through a spacebridge two cycles ago, growling about "getting this over with," Optimus hadn't been sure what to expect. He definitely hadn't been expecting this.

"Almost?" The tyrant echoed, tone dangerous. Typical ungrateful Autobot. If only the Prime knew how many favours he'd called in with the Constructicons, how many thousands of credits he'd spent - 

"It just seems a little cruel," Optimus clarified, subtly shifting closer to his conjunx under the pretence of adjusting the heavy woollen blanket that lay over their knees. 

"There's nothing cruel about it," Megatron retorted, shifting away. Prime was about as subtle as a brick upside the helm, and deception didn't suit him. "Thunderhoof owed me a considerable debt. I made his choices very clear - repayment, torture, prison, or this. He chose this of his own volition." 

"It hardly seems like a fair choice," Optimus insisted, thoroughly unconvinced. A scattering of snowflakes had begun to fall from the cloudless sky, dusting the sleek crimson metal and ornately moulded gold trim of the sleigh with fragile white crystals.

"Fair choice? Is you'se nuts or somethin'?" The sleigh ground to an abrupt halt. "Since when does Megatron give anymech a fair choice?" Thunderhoof sounded decidedly annoyed, but there was a hint of a grin on the Predacon's faceplates. 

"I don't recall asking for your opinion." Megatron snapped. "Mute it and keep pulling. Or do you want me to add another three cycles to your debt?"

"No sir, bossmech sir." The Predacon replied sardonically.

"Good." The warlord's tone brokered no argument, and after a few moments of mutual glaring, the sleigh ride grudgingly resumed. 

Thunderhoof may have muttered something under his vent about "glitchheads in love," but both Megatron and the Prime studiously ignored him.

Having a conjunx didn't necessitate love - it barely necessitated tolerance. 

But with time, that might well change.


	23. The Gratitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blurr's dialogue is exhausting.

"Again, I just want to say how grateful I am, I really and truly am, and I can't believe that you just saved my life, that I was saved by a Decepticon, no, that I was saved by the Lord of the Decepticons, and it's just so unprecedented and appreciated and I just can't thank you enough -"

If anymech's vocalizer could be classified as a lethal weapon, it would be Blurr's. The blue racer had been spewing nonsense at a blisteringly rapid pace for nearly a solid breem now, and Megatron was fairly certain that the little fool hadn't paused to vent even once. 

The tyrant was sorely tempted, yet again, to gouge out his own audios. This would be the fourteenth slagging time in just twenty-two orns. Frelling motor-mouthed mech.

Megatron had long ago decided that he loathed being thanked. 

Being the tyrannical warlord of the Decepticon army hadn't been a position that readily lent itself to such pleasantries. The only words of gratitude that he had heard on a regular basis were "thank you for sparing my miserable function." Typically from terrified Autobots, typically just before he deactivated them out of spite. 

He'd never felt anything less than disdain towards grateful mechs, and Cybertron's recent transition into an era of peacetime had done nothing to change that attitude. 

"Don't thank me," Megatron snapped, cutting off Blurr's seemingly endless and thoroughly pointless rambling. 

He hadn't meant to save the frelling glitch in the first place. It had been an unfortunate accident. Today's worksite was the bombed-out shell of what had once been Iacon's Grand Library. 

A series of controlled detonations were being used to demolish the structure, and some fool mech had set one of the charges incorrectly. Rather than imploding cleanly, the south wing of the building had exploded outwards in a rain of lethal shrapnel. 

Megatron had acted on pure instinct, shoving the racer to the ground and using his own frame to shield the smaller mech from the blast. 

It was an ancient instinct, originating from long before the war. A miner's instinct, which had saved so many of his comrades in the Pits of Kaon. Explosions had been distressingly common in the mines - slaves had been viewed as expendable resources, and as such, safety protocols had been almost universally disregarded. 

It was an instinct that had come back to haunt him. He had just saved an Autobot's function. A frelling Autobot of all mechs! Unacceptable. 

"Don't thank me," Megatron repeated, tone dangerous. "Don't ever speak of this again." 

"If that's what you want, and of course that's what you want, I suppose I could maybe not say anything, for you, because you saved my plating, and it's a holiday miracle and I owe you big time and it's amazing that even a mech like you can get into the spirit of the season, and I'm really so incredibly lucky -" 

Oh dear Primus, the racer was rambling again. 

"Mute it," Megatron ordered sharply. "Get your aft to the medbay, and get yourself scanned. Everymech on this work crew is required to be in fully operational condition." 

There was no way in Pit that Blurr had escaped the explosion completely unscathed, after all.

"Well if you say so then I suppose I can, even though I do feel fine, so fine, and I didn't think you'd even care and now you do and it's so bizarre, but it's such a -"

"Now!" The tyrant barked. On top of everything else, he was starting to get a processor ache. Frelling motor-mouthed mech.

"Of course, thank you so much, Merry Christmas!" With one last ventless outburst, the racer finally darted off in the general direction of the medical tent. 

Merry Christmas. Megatron pondered the words for a few moments. It seemed he'd just been given exactly the excuse that he needed. Yes, he'd just saved an Autobot's function. If anymech dared to question him about it, he'd merely blame his actions on the so-called infectious good cheer of the holidays. 

It was preferable to the truth.

The truth being that the tyrant's protective instincts were among his most notable weaknesses, weaknesses which he had painstakingly suppressed throughout millennia of conflict. Nomech online knew about them, and nomech online needed to know about them. 

The end of the war was no excuse to become careless. It was no excuse to expose his weaknesses, and it was certainly no excuse to display cross-faction sympathies. 

Now, to get his own aft to the medbay. The shrapnel lodged in his scorched and bleeding plating wasn't exactly going to remove itself.


	24. The Infidelity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't ship it. Also, I accidentally a plot.

Prime was late. Again. 

Megatron wouldn't have given a scrap, except for the fact that the glitched Autobot fool had apparently decided to change the locking codes. 

Megatron had gotten into an argument with Prime the previous evening, the usual nonsense about foolish ideologies and self-righteous imbeciles. No surprise there.

The surprise had been returning from the military base tonight to discover that Optimus had apparently changed not only the locking code, but also the lock override code, the auxiliary locking code, the auxiliary lock override code, the master locking code, and the master lock override code.

Megatron was stuck outside the front door of his own apartment.

The tyrant was downright furious, but to certain extent he was also grudgingly impressed. That lock had been dual-encrypted with an inverse eternity code, constructed by Shockwave specifically for Megatron's use - it must have taken a great deal of time and effort to reprogram it so thoroughly. 

The Prime had developed quite the vindictive streak since the end of the war, Megatron smirked to himself. Behaviour like this was quite nearly befitting a Decepticon.

It would be easy to simply blast through the door with a pulse from his fusion cannon. It would also be a step backwards in the already slow progress of the Iacon reconstruction effort. An effort that was under-equipped, under-supplied, and painfully short on mechpower. 

Blasting the door open would be a waste of valuable resources. It would be more pragmatic to simply wait for Optimus to return from his work at the council. It would also be more enjoyable - Megatron had been looking for a good reason to beat the slag out of the Prime, and this was as good as reasons got.

Except for the fact that Megatron had now been standing in the hallway for three frelling cycles, and had been expecting Optimus to return more than two and a half cycles ago. Pit, the glitch was probably late on purpose.

At the end of the hallway, the elevator doors rattled noisily, jarring Megatron from his bitterly amused contemplation. Finally.

The doors shuddered open. It seemed that Optimus Prime had finally dragged his aft home. Oddly enough, he was accompanied by his fellow councillor, Hot Rod. Or was it 'Rodimus Prime' now? Megatron rolled his optics. It didn't matter.

"See?" The flame-coloured mech was grinning as he jostled the other Prime's shoulder. "Didn't I promise you a good time?" 

Well, that certainly explained why Prime was late - he had been busy fraternizing with a hedonistic fool. Likely at Swerve's.

"You certainly kept your promise." Optimus agreed, drawing Rodimus into a loose embrace. "Again."

"What can I say? I'm a mech of my word." The other Prime smirked playfully, leaning into the embrace. "So, one for the road?"

The tyrant furrowed a brow ridge. They were so caught up in their own little world that they hadn't even noticed him. Had Hot Rod gotten them both overcharged? It would explain this uncharacteristically intimate embrace. Prime rarely touched anymech unless he absolutely had to.

"Always," Optimus smiled fondly, closing the remaining distance between them and drawing Rodimus in for a passionate kiss.

Megatron growled, low and threatening. Rage flared through his spark. Optimus Prime was HIS conjunx, and no other mech had the right to so much as -

No. The tyrant forcibly cleared those thoughts from his processor. They weren't his own. They were merely basic, instinctive functions triggered by the conjunx eterna code. He couldn't care less who Prime spent time with, or kissed, or even interfaced. 

It didn't matter. Neither did the locking codes.

Lost in the passion of a heated kiss, neither of the two Primes noticed the slamming of the stairwell door. Megatron had decided that he would be staying at Soundwave's apartment for the foreseeable future.

An apartment that wasn't decorated with irritatingly colored lights, that wasn't littered with shredded wrapping foil, that didn't have greeting cards displayed on every available surface, and that didn't smell like experimental energon-based holiday beverages.

He couldn't care less. It didn't matter.

When had it started to matter?


	25. The Fireplace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Literal train wreck" would have been too meta.

It had been orns since Optimus Prime had last seen Megatron. 

Until the holiday season had begun, Optimus had never paid attention to the whereabouts of his conjunx. He hadn't particularly cared what Megatron did or where Megatron went, so long as the tyrant wasn't trying to restart the war. 

What had changed? 

He'd brought Christmas to Cybertron, a holiday that was characterized by an outpouring of generosity, empathy, and acceptance. The celebrations had opened his optics, his processor, and even his spark. 

Now, he found himself genuinely worrying about Megatron.

A comm to the military base indicated that the tyrant was still attending work, which was both reassuring and hurtful. Megatron wasn't missing, wasn't in prison, or in a medbay, or in any number of other dangerous predicaments. He simply hadn't seen fit to return to the apartment - their apartment - for nearly a decaorn. 

Optimus had gone looking. Now that he had finally found the tyrant, he wished that he hadn't.

His search had led him into the maintenance tunnels beneath Iacon, to a partially-collapsed transit conduit and to the strangest thing he'd seen in his entire function. 

"Exactly what are you doing?" His tone was incredulous, and it took a concentrated effort not to gape openmouthed. 

"Celebrating one of your Christmas traditions," Megatron replied, his smirk thoroughly humourless. "Some nonsense about a comfortable chair in front of a roaring fireplace?" 

Optimus tried his best to reconcile that statement with reality. He found that he couldn't. Megatron was lounging on a pile of loosely stacked rubble, in front of a literal tire fire. 

"That's -" The Prime struggled for words. "That's not the point. Why are you down here?"

"It's as good a place as any to recharge." The tyrant replied matter-of-factly. "It's completely free of interloping Decepticons and self-righteous Autobots. At least it was, until you showed your unwelcome faceplates." 

"I honestly expected that you'd be staying with Soundwave. Searching down here was a last resort." Optimus admitted.

"I was," Megatron snapped. "Blackarachnia threw me out." Quite literally, in fact. His Third's conjunx had developed a remarkably foul temper since the start of her carrying cycle. 

Prime didn't reply, so the tyrant continued to rant, tone becoming increasingly agitated. "Starscream attempted to deactivate me again, so the rest of the Trine was completely out of the question. Shockwave was looking for test subjects rather than houseguests. Lugnut was quite literally watching me recharge, Blitzwing was still furious over the radiation poisoning, and in case you've forgotten, Dreadwing is STILL in prison."

Optimus shuttered his optics, stunned silent by Megatron's outburst. The tyrant glared at him furiously, crimson optics burning more brightly than the tires. The silence was deafening.

At last, the Prime found his voice. "Why didn't you just come back to the apartment?" He asked, genuinely confused.

"You changed the locking codes. Logically, I assumed that Rodimus had moved in." Megatron's tone was venomous. "I don't stay where I'm not wanted, Prime." 

Optimus shuttered his optics again. Once, twice, a third time. It seemed impossible, but there was only one explanation. Megatron, the Lord of the Decepticons, the Terror of Kaon, the Slagmaker himself, was jealous. Of Rodimus frelling Prime.

"Megatron," Optimus exvented heavily, guilt flaring in his spark. "We need to talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter to go! Hang on to your hats, folks.


	26. Optimus Prime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F*cking finally!

It was Christmas Day, the day on which the first annual Cybertronian holiday season had finally reached its climax. Nearly everymech was out celebrating, save for the two mechs who had been at the epicentre of the chaos ever since the holidays had begun. 

Megatron and Optimus Prime. 

Both mechs were thoroughly exhausted, in both processor and frame.

Maybe it was a matter of their age, of having functioned for longer than nearly anymech left online after the Great War. Maybe they were simply too old for this juvenile nonsense, or for any nonsense at all. Maybe they were doomed to fade slowly into deactivation as nothing more than obsolete, rusted relics. 

Maybe. 

Nomech would so much as dare to insinuate it, though, not after the brutal display of violence that had been broadcast all over the newsfeeds last night.

"Surely there were other solutions." Optimus groused. "Solutions that didn't involve nearly deactivating Rodimus Prime."

Optimus Prime and his conjunx were relaxing together in front of a roaring fireplace, sprawled lazily over a careworn sofa. The two mechs watched with fascination as the flames flickered and danced in mesmerizing patterns.

Cybertronian dwellings didn't have fireplaces. They didn't need fireplaces. Optimus, however, had insisted on having one made and installed, courtesy of Wheeljack. After that sparkbreaking sight in the maintenance tunnels, it was the least that he could do.

"Nothing less would have satisfied my coding," Megatron replied smugly. Technically, that wasn't true. Beating the ever loving slag out of Rodimus hadn't been motivated by the conjunx eterna code, but rather by the tyrant's own desire for revenge.

Nomech would be allowed to lay a servo on his Prime ever again. Nearly a solar cycle after the end of the war, Megatron had finally accepted his coding, had finally accepted Optimus Prime as his conjunx eterna. All it had taken was twenty-five orns of holiday madness and the public dismantling of one Rodimus Prime.

"Violence is never the answer," Optimus lectured, tone amused. "But I'll count it as a Christmas miracle that he's still technically online." 

Optimus subtly shifted closer to Megatron's side. The tyrant didn't shift away. Optimus shifted closer still, their shoulders now touching. The tyrant still didn't shift away. Optimus decided to push his luck, resting his helm in the crook of Megatron's neck cabling. The tyrant merely exvented with annoyance. 

"Consider it your Christmas gift," Megatron scoffed, trying not to enjoy the feeling of the other mech's sturdy frame pressed comfortably against his own. "Primus knows I couldn't be bothered to get you anything else." 

"How generous," Optimus replied flatly, his tone wry.

"You're a soft-sparked fool, Prime. If you chose to waste your hard-earned credits on gifts for your worst enemy, that is in no way my fault." Megatron gave a rumbling growl that may have actually been laughter.

"Worst enemy? I believe that our current status is conjunx eterna." Optimus retorted dryly, taking advantage of the tyrant's momentary good humour to reposition himself so that he was seated completely in the larger mech's lap.

"The concepts are in no way mutually exclusive." Megatron smirked, grabbing a tight hold of the presumptuous Prime's shoulders. His claws dug roughly into the plating, down into the sensitive cables beneath, and his conjunx squirmed with pleasurable discomfort. "You'd be wise to remember that." 

"Stop being so dramatic," Optimus complained, swatting at the tyrant's tormenting servos in a way that he refused to admit was playful.

"Make me." The tyrant challenged, in that same dangerous tone he'd been using for millennia. A tone that the Prime now realized was laden not only with confident superiority, but also with overwhelming desire.

In lieu of a response, Optimus leaned forward and kissed Megatron firmly on the lipplates. The tyrant raised an optic ridge. Did Prime really think that he could so easily control the Slagmaker himself? Clearly, the presumptuous glitch needed to be taught a lesson.

Faster than Optimus could shutter his optics, Megatron reversed the dynamic of the kiss, dentae clamping down on the Prime's lower lipplate. Optimus gasped with pleasure as energon welled from the wound, which was all the opportunity that the tyrant needed to invade the Autobot's mouth with his forceful glossa. 

Optimus surrendered to Megatron's kiss with a moan of pleasure, and the tyrant couldn't help a wicked little thought. To Pit with the peace treaty, the council, and the rule of the Magnus. 

If he had only known all those millennia ago how laughably easy it was to make the Prime submit to his will, the war would have long since been over. Megatron would have long since ruled Cybertron under Decepticon law, with Optimus Prime at his side as both his prisoner and his consort.

The tyrant's cooling fans onlined noisily at the thought. He momentarily deepened the kiss, then abruptly pulled away, breaking the contact between their mouths.

"I loathe you, Prime." Megatron smirked with satisfaction, slowly licking the spilt energon from his lipplates. 

He had wanted this for far, far too long. Now, in front of a roaring fireplace, on a careworn sofa, on Christmas Day, Optimus Prime was finally his.

The Prime shuddered with anticipation. They had both wanted this for far, far too long.

"It's mutual."

Maybe they were doomed to fade slowly into deactivation as nothing more than obsolete, rusted relics... but at least they would be together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wishing you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
> 
> I just wanted to thank you all for your support and for your lovely comments. The holiday season is always an adventure, and it was fun to share this one with you.

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all feedback is appreciated.


End file.
